


(Ful)Fill Me

by jamlockk



Series: All the ways we love [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock tried, he really did, he truly, valiantly attempted to ignore it. But then John came into the kitchen, humming softly under his breath, dressing gown parted to show just a hint of collarbone and chest, and all efforts to prevent arousal were summarily dismissed."</p><p>John goes out to work but comes back at the most inconvenient time. Cue much smut, pining, a smattering of mild angst and whole heap of fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Ful)Fill Me

**Author's Note:**

> A Johnlock plot bunny bit me really early this morning and this shameless smut is the result. Damn bite-y Johnlock bunnies.
> 
> Mahoosive thanks to my bae [Ewebie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie) for the superquick beta.

**(Ful)Fill Me**

Sherlock tried, he really did, he truly, valiantly attempted to ignore it. But then John came into the kitchen, humming softly under his breath, dressing gown parted to show just a hint of collarbone and chest, and all efforts to prevent arousal were summarily dismissed. 

In the light of the dull, overcast morning, John was practically glowing with warmth, his skin a little flushed from the heat of his shower. His hair was still damp and sticking out a bit at the sides from where he'd rubbed it dry(ish) with a towel. His eyes were bright and he stuffed a piece of toast into his mouth, before gulping his tea. He reached past Sherlock, who was sitting hunched over his microscope at the kitchen table, thighs pressed hard into the bottom of the table to disguise the ridiculous bulge in his pyjama trousers. Sherlock inwardly cursed his sensitive skin, both for the fact that it reacted thus to John's mere presence - _prickling into goosebumps whenever John was near_ \- and its refusal to tolerate cheaper, heavier fabric which would undoubtedly do a much more effective job of hiding his stupid erection. 

John mumbled something around his final mouthful of toast and tea that Sherlock steadfastly ignored, focusing on controlling his pulse and breathing. He made a noncommittal noise in his throat and heard John snort before he turned away to go upstairs to dress. Sherlock breathed deeply in relief. Too late he realised what a huge mistake that had been as the scent of bergamot, peppermint and John filled his nostrils. 

Oh God. John smelled _divine_. Closing his eyes and gripping the edges of the table in his hands Sherlock tried to control the wave of heat that simmered low in his belly. The fragrance would dissipate in time, he just had to relax long enough to let it pass.

He hardly noticed John's footsteps on the stairs again, nor John's goodbye as he headed off to the surgery for his shift, oblivious to the plight of his best friend (totallyplatonicbestfriendflatmatemanwholovedhimmorethanlifeitself) clinging helplessly to Mrs Hudson's furniture. 

Sherlock took another deep breath and made up his mind. John would be at the surgery for hours, he could indulge himself right here in the kitchen and then get back to his soil samples for the rest of the day. He would clean up quickly and efficiently and John would never have to know. These indulgences were becoming ever more frequent, Sherlock thought somewhat bitterly as he stripped off his pyjamas, t-shirt and dressing gown. Only last night, he'd brought himself to completion on his bed, the fingers of one hand stuffed into his mouth to muffle any sound, the other hand working himself as he clenched around the plug in his arse. He'd climaxed hard and collapsed on the bed, eventually falling into a restless sleep. He'd been imagining that it was John inside him, John's hand on his cock. John breathing encouragements into his skin as he thrust mercilessly, John orgasming inside him. John kissing him, petting his hair, holding him close as they both came down from the rush. Pointless sentiment. 

Shaking away the cloud of desperate longing that threatened to consume his thoughts Sherlock vowed to concentrate purely on the physical. He pictured John behind him as he bent forward over the table, gently fondling his cock, focusing purely on the sensations and not the useless, unrequited emotions that he could (not) suppress. He stroked up and down his side with his other hand, gradually moving lower and reaching back to his still-slick hole. 

He circled his entrance lightly and pressed in with the tip of one finger. Oh. His hand quickened on his cock; this was not going to take long. Shuffling to get more comfortable, Sherlock added a second finger, then a third and pushed them into himself. He was panting now, the hand on his cock tugging in long, rough strokes as he pulled his other hand back and then pushed forward again. His hips rocked back against his hand and he stifled a loud groan as he fucked himself with his fingers. He hardly noticed that he was muttering now, lost in the sensations and the fantasies he'd dreamed of last night. 

"Oh God," Sherlock mumbled into the surface of the table and he turned his head to the side, eyes closed. "Please, fill me John."

"I forgot my wallet so-." 

Oh God. Oh no. Oh shit oh fuck _oh fuck_. 

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes to see John standing in the doorway. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock's naked body, stretched over their kitchen table, fucking himself and masturbating and moaning John's name. Sherlock was frozen, completely unable to move. 

John swallowed tightly. His face was flushed and his tongue darted out to dash across his lips. Sherlock couldn't stop his eyes from following the movement. 

"Fill you," John said, voice hoarse and ragged. Sherlock had no idea what else to do so he nodded. 

"Right," breathed John. Sherlock shut his eyes and withdrew his fingers from his arse. His arousal had wilted somewhat anyway. So, this was it then. John was going to leave. Permanently. Not gay, remember Sherlock? Really sorry but there it is. Bit awkward to come home and find you fantasising about me so... vividly, so I'm just gonna go now. Bye (forever).

Then Sherlock heard footsteps coming towards him, the rustle of material, the whoosh of a zipper and a soft thump as John's jeans hit the floor behind him. He didn't dare move or open his eyes and startled at the sound of scrambling fingers on the table beside him. There was a small tearing noise, then a long breathy sound and suddenly a slick, latex-clad presence at his entrance.

"Fill you," came John's voice, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them. 

"John," Sherlock mumbled, the only word he could give, an affirmation of more than just what John was asking here. And then John, his John was pushing into him. John, his John was filling him, hands trembling as they gripped Sherlock's hips and pulled Sherlock slowly back onto his larger-than-anticipated (good God John, you're huge and I immedicately adore it) cock. 

The guttural moans that ripped from them both when John was finally buried balls-deep in Sherlock's arse would've woken a coma patient. Sherlock grappled with the edges of the table to steady himself and not shoot off like a bottle rocket instantly. It felt glorious. So full and so complete and so... And I lov-

No. No. He mustn't let himself get carried away. This is wonderful certainly, and all he'd ever wanted, to have John within him like this but he mustn't allow himself to think for a second that it could last any longer than-

John pulled back and began thrusting and Sherlock couldn't help it. He cried out in pure pleasure as it sang along his veins, jumbling his mind and wiping it utterly blank except for John. Dimly he could hear John's voice but he couldn't make out the words. John was saying something; Sherlock's name followed by... something. His mouth formed around replies but all that came forth were "Yes" and "Please" and "Oh" and "John". 

He gripped the table as John fucked him harder and harder, reaching down to tug on his cock. John batted Sherlock's hand away and replaced it with his own. It only took two or three strokes and he felt his orgasm building in his spine and his stomach and his toes and his fingertips and no not yet not yet not-

The waves of pleasure crashed through Sherlock as he came and came, splattering the underside of the table and the floor. Distantly he was aware of his legs sagging and he tried to prop himself up. John's thrusts lost rhythm and he may have been shouting Sherlock's name, but Sherlock was barely aware of it. All he could feel was John filling him, John's coming inside him and for a brief moment he thought he felt the lightest brush of lips against the skin of his back as John collapsed forward on top of him. 

They lay there, both panting heavily. Sherlock felt John tense as reality crept back in. He would crave the warmth and comfort (and was that happiness?) of having John so close, but he knew he would never have this again. He would lock it away somewhere deep inside his head (heart) and never look at the memory again, it would hurt too much to know what he'd lost. 

With a sharp inhale, John slowly pulled out. The wet slurp was obscene in the 8.36am kitchen. Sherlock stayed perfectly still, feeling the sweat cooling between his shoulder blades and at the small of his back. The air was cold as it rushed around him in place of John's body heat. 

Sherlock listened as John dressed. He felt numb and exposed but he didn't want to stand up and disturb the already uneasy silence between them. He stayed spread over the table, refusing to budge. 

At last John seemed to be dressed but he dithered. Sherlock felt gentle fingers at his hole and gasped. John was checking for damage. Ever the responsible doctor. Sherlock was suddenly inexplicably angry. 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I-," John started. And then he was gone. 

\------

Sherlock paced and paced in the sitting room for hours, fingers threaded through his hair and tugging sharply to ground himself in the pain. 

John had left. John had fucked him over the kitchen table and then John had left. 

Well it was to be expected. After all, this never would have happened if Sherlock could just keep his desires and emotions in check. If he could just stop his body overruling his mind when it came to John. He flopped down onto the far side of the sofa and curled up into as small a ball as his 6ft frame would allow. 

Delete it. That's what he'd do. He'd delete the entire morning. It was sort of dark now and Sherlock didn't know what the time was, nor did he care. He would delete his encounter with John and be perfectly normal (Sherlock-normal) by the time John returned. John would have to come back to pick up his things and move out. So Sherlock would delete everything and go back to how he was Before John. Simple. 

Except... It wasn't that simple. He had managed to pull on his pyjamas and t-shirt and dressing gown again, cleaning himself perfunctorily, but he hadn't showered or anything. Disgusted at his own sentimentality, he still couldn't bring himself to wash away the feeling of John's hands on him, John around him, John in him. He couldn't delete John's smiles or laughter or exasperatedly calling him a prick while simultaneously grinning at something inappropriate. Or the sound of John puttering around the flat, pecking at his laptop typing up their stories on his bloody blog, making tea and nagging Sherlock to eat and patching up his injuries and sitting in his chair reading the newspaper and a million other tiny domestic moments that Sherlock realised had become as necessary to his existence as oxygen. 

Letting out a frustrated growl and yanking on his hair again Sherlock tried to bite back the sob in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut against the hot prickling of tears. _Childish, useless, pathetic,_ he scolded himself fiercely. Get. A. Fucking. Grip. 

The misery tugged at him, hollowing out the spaces John had filled and Sherlock finally gave up trying to delete anything. He curled even tighter and drifted into a fretful doze. 

He was woken by a hand carding tenderly through his hair. He sighed and leaned into the touch for a moment before realising that it must be John. Snapping to awareness he sat up, ignoring the protests of his joints and muscles from being so cramped and squished into the corner of the sofa for so long. 

He sat up sharply as John retreated to the other side of the sofa, smiling gently. 

"There you are," John murmured. Sherlock sniffed. 

"I wanted to apologise, for earlier I mean," John said, unconsciously straightening his shoulders and sitting more upright. 

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Unnecessary, John. It was my error."

"See, that's the thing," replied John. "I'm-"

"Not gay," Sherlock interrupted. "Yes I am aware."

"No, that's not-"

"It's fine John. No matter. I will delete it."

"No Sherlock, you're not-"

"I will advise Mrs Hudson of your departure, I fear she will be terribly furious with me but nevertheless-"

"No Sherlock, fuck's sake, fucking listen!" John sprang forward and grabbed at Sherlock, his hands tightening around Sherlock's knees. Sherlock's eyes went wide and he was helpless to prevent himself inhaling deeply, lids fluttering and nostrils flaring at John's deliciously overwhelming scent and proximity. 

"Just... Listen, for once," John said quietly, a fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 

"I don't think it was an error, Sherlock. I've been out walking most of the day, Sarah called me furious, but I find I don't give a single solitary fuck. I had to get things straight in my head. I had to... Sort myself out."

John stopped and sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. Sherlock twitched to copy the motion with his own fingers but restrained himself. 

"See, there's something... Something I've meant to say, always, Sherlock and I never have. Well, until this morning. Since it's unlikely we'll be in this position again I might as well say it again now."

Sherlock stared, curious and terrified in equal measure. He could recall John's voice speaking to him as they fucked but he had been to overcome with finally having John that he hadn't heard the words. 

John took another deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was determined and proud. 

"I love you," he said. 

Sherlock gaped. He blinked. He was simply stunned. John.. John loved him? John loved him. John. His John. The John he could no more live without than he could live without ever breathing ever again. _John loved him._

"Sherlock?" John's hand was back stroking through his hair and his voice was whisper-soft. "You okay?"

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. John smiled. "Glad you didn't have that reaction the first time I told you that," he said ruefully. "Look it's okay, nothing has to change, I just... I couldn't go any longer without, ha, without telling you. Ahem. Telling you properly, I mean."

Sherlock frowned. When had John told him he loved him before? This made no sense and Sherlock found himself feeling even more lost. John laughed under his breath and moved to sit back on the sofa next to Sherlock. Sherlock instantly regretted whatever he'd done or not done to make John move so far away and take his lovely hand from Sherlock's hair. 

"Figures you weren't listening this morning," John huffed in mock-grumpiness. Sherlock finally gathered his wits to reply. 

"I was rather...distracted," he mumbled. John laughed and Sherlock immediately locked the sound away in his mind, wanting to treasure it and forgetting for a moment to abhor the sentimentality of that wish. 

"John," he said cautiously. 

"Yeah?"

Sherlock paused, brow furrowed as he thought about what he wanted to say. He loved John, there was no question of it. Why was he still thinking?

"I-I l-love you, John."

John's smile lit up the dim room. He stood up and tugged Sherlock to standing too. Sherlock delighted in John's hand returning to his hair as John wrapped his other arm around Sherlock's back to pull him close. 

"Let's do this properly this time, hm?" John's voice was soft and his breath warm against Sherlock's lips. The kiss was gentle and chaste but with such promise of more that Sherlock felt as though he could shatter into a thousand pieces at John's feet. His body reacted of its own accord, arms wrapping around John's shoulders, hands stroking John's back to keep him near. They swayed together a little, lost in each other's arms as they kissed, just sweet presses of lips. 

Finally John drew back and pushed messy curls away from Sherlock's forehead. 

"John," Sherlock breathed. 

"Yeah?"

"Fill me again?" 

"Oh God, yes," John replied, grinning as he took Sherlock's hand. "But this time, I'm going to fill you and fulfil you too." 

Sherlock let himself be led to the bedroom, not bothering this time to try to hide his arousal.

\------


End file.
